


Mind, Heart, and Soul

by Dorano1



Category: The Brotherband Chronicles - John Flanagan
Genre: Character Study, Heart, Internal Monologue, Mind-palaces, soul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5650858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorano1/pseuds/Dorano1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the inner workings of each Heron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hal

Hal's mind was a library.

A library with endless shelves, with books and scrolls, arranged in an order that would be incomprehensible to anyone who wasn't Hal. A library that was equal parts maze and death trap and invaluable resource, with hundreds of dead ends and booby traps that would spell death to any invader - or Hal himself, if he took a wrong turn and picked up the wrong book.

Each book was a recollection, a memory, a dream, an idea, a could-have-been or a reminder. Each scroll was a warning, a prediction, or advice. Everyone he'd ever met was in their own room, and all he had to do was walk in and he could talk to them, even if they weren't there. He roamed the paths between the shelves, dancing around traps and dead ends with expert precision. After all, it is his mind.

But even with all the defenses he's put in place, wood and paper burn so easily.

* * *

Hal's heart was the sea.

A sea of grays and whites and blues of every shade. A sea where the whales sang their songs in the deep and the sharks were held at bay by a great sea-snake, where graceful seabirds dove for fish to eat, and where waves broke on shores that never came. A sea that extended endlessly past the horizon, and down to the darkest depths. A sea within his mind-library, his next line of defense if his mind could not hold.

Each eye was a memory, each scale a dream, each tooth an idea. Everyone he knew lived in the white crests of the sea foam, the highlights and shadows of the choppy storm waters, the varying colors on the surface. He lived in the same place - in the currents, the eddies, the ripples of the water when the wind blew across it. In his heart-sea, he needed nothing, and nothing could reach him.

The sea was his safety, as long as the snake stayed in place. If the sharks broke free, he would be torn apart.

* * *

Hal's soul was a ship.

A ship of graceful lines and smooth wooden boards that fit together perfectly. A ship with a carved heron for a figurehead and a heron stitched into her sail. A ship that sang the song of the wind in her sails and the sea beneath her hull, where the salty spray rained down on the deck. A ship that never lacked for wind in her sails, a ship that needed no oars, only a rudder to steer her. A ship that sailed on his heart-sea, swift and beautiful, that could weather any storm. A ship that was his last hope, if his mind broke and his heart failed.

Each crew member was a person he loved - a brother, a sister, a mother, a father, a friend. Each board was something he cared for. Each thread in her sail was something he must remember, and every stitch was him. The stitches were what he was, and if one failed...

It was not a fate Hal spent much time contemplating. His soul-ship must be kept in pristine condition, no matter what.

For without his ship and his crew - and all that comes with it - he is nothing.


	2. Thorn

Thorn's mind was a house.

A pine-log hall with warm fires roaring in the hearths. There were people milling about, talking and laughing and enjoying themselves, and all of them were him, at some point or another, with a specific time in their faces. He could speak to any of them if he chose, or simply watch and listen and drink his water. A hall where all were welcome, no matter their faults, and the men he sailed with now laughed and joked with those he'd sailed with Before. A hall where the shadows were kept at bay by roaring fires and everyone tried to forget about the mad old beggar who'd stumbled off into them one day, never to be seen again.

Each person was a memory or someone he knew, and every fire was a reminder of his own worth. Tiny embers once, they now blazed as strongly as they ever had, making faces in the flames and keeping him - for all practical purposes - alive.

And yet, wood and fire are a dangerous combination, as any sailor would tell you.

* * *

Thorn's heart was a ship.

A strong, proud wolfship, with every upgrade Hal might have made to her - the raked, triangular sail, the fin keel, the whacking great crossbow set in the front. It responded to his thought rather than his touch, and she sailed effortlessly across endless blue seas. Her crew was more a part of her than anything, but he could speak to each of them, and often did. She sliced through the roughest waters with ease, and weathered the most violent storms without a scratch. But she fell into disrepair so easily, and constant effort was required to keep her in shape.

Her sails and hull were made of memories, of lessons he'd learned and refused to forget. His heart-ship was a chest of things more valuable than gold and jewels, more precious than life and limb. His heart-ship was his last defense if his mind fell.

* * *

Thorn's soul was a field.

A field of bloodstained grass and too-red dirt, with the faceless dead strewn about, ugly wounds leaking blood, sightless eyes staring up at the sky, mouths ever so slightly agape. The field of the warrior, the hardened campaigner, the old soldier who knew little else - and was fine with that. There was always another foe to fight here, always another demon to be slain. Thorn killed them all here, slew everything in his path for another night of peaceful sleep.

There were no memories stored in the blades of grass or in the cloudy sky. Thorn's soul-field was not a vault of precious things. It was a battlefield, his battlefield, a battlefield he ruled over with axe and club and sword and shield. The weapon in his hands would shift and change, but now it had a heron carved into it, and it always contained everything he needed - twelve people. Nothing more. The weapon held them all - Mikkel, Hal, Stig, Lydia, Ingvar, Edvin, Ulf, Wulf, Stefan, Jesper, Erak, and Karina. No matter what, he refused to lose them.


	3. Jesper

Jesper's mind was a city.

A city of shadows, of plague and death and endless opportunity. A city where the rich threw parties every night while the poor died in the streets below, where crime ruled the streets, and strength was the only law. A city that stood on the edge of a knife, where a single act - a life spared, a woman saved, a child helped - could tip the scales. Jesper's mind was a savage, terrible place, and he liked it that way.

Each shadow held a memory, each coin a dream, each priceless painting a person he could talk to. The shadows were his home, both within and without his mind. In his mind-city, he needed no food, no water, no sleep, no companionship. In his mind-city, he ruled supreme, though no one knew it, and kept a balance between the guiding light and the chaotic dark. He kept the balance, stealing from the rich and buying from the poor, between good and evil. He kept it the perfect shade of gray.

Too much light and he would loose his touch - that sly, ruthless cunning that made him such an excellent thief and sneak, made him useful to the Herons. Too much dark and his saxe knife might find itself embedded in someone's back.

* * *

Jesper's heart was a bridge.

An old wooden bridge that spanned a rushing river, made of bright birch and dark spruce and everything in between. A bridge with a faded bloodstain on the left side, that everyone stepped around almost unconsciously, because nobody _really_ wanted to know what happened there (and Jesper wishes - oh, how he wishes - that he could wash that stain out). An old, rickety, wooden patchwork of a bridge that nobody thought much about - and yet, they used it every day. A bridge that preferred it that way, to not be recognized, because _recognition_ meant _change_ and _change_ had caused the bloodstain that neither man, nor beast, nor earth, nor time could wash away.

Only two people ever stopped to talk.

One of them was shorter than the other, with a sword at his hip and a perpetually rueful smile on his face. He would lean against the railing and talk about a thousand things, from ships to birds to whales to land-sails and other strange things. He never acknowledge the bloodstain, and Jesper was grateful for it.

The other was tall, with a mischievous grin and a voice that could change to fit any scenario - or simply on a whim. He would wander over the bridge, talking almost too quickly to understand, every step _just_ missing the bloodstain. One day, Jesper knew, he would miss and step on the bloodstain itself, and his world might tear itself apart because of it.

* * *

Jesper's soul was a river.

A river that was both lazy and rushing, cheerful and raging, with slow, pleasant places and treacherous rapids. A river who's blue waters concealed jagged rocks, flesh-eating fish, and innumerable other dangers to the unwary traveler. A river that both provided sanctuary and promised death. A river, in short, as chaotically unpredictable as Jesper himself.

The waters of his soul-river carried his most precious things with them, shielding them within drops of water and protecting them from the shadowy prowlers on the riverbanks. They splashed on the rocks, sending fine spray into the air, taunting the shadow-beasts with the memories - because they could, because they loved the challenge of dancing around the paws of the shadow-beasts, only to flit away laughing when the shadows turned on them. The waters were careless and free and playful, but when the need arose, they were deadly.


	4. Ingvar

Ingvar's mind was a cloud.

A cloud of calm, reassuring white that heralded nothing ill in the weather, and of dark, dangerous gray thunderheads which promised death and dismay for any who dared to challenge him or his. A cloud that offered precious shade and life-giving water, a cloud that carried the knowledge of all his years and inscribed it all into every inch of his mind. He has never been one for books, but he is nothing if not observant, and he knows things about the world that others fail to notice.

There are many types of wisdom in the world, and Ingvar knows them all.

* * *

Ingvar's heart was a mountain.

A mountain that reached up to touch the sky, who's roots reached down to the very core of the world. A mountain with endless caves and passages, with things both terrible and wonderful contained within - and at the center, great reward. A mountain that could not be moved, that was steadfast and unyielding in the face of howling winds and pounding rains. A mountain that was, in short, as true and constant as the man himself.

Each cave held a memory, all connected by tunnels that wove an intricate network through Ingvar's heart-mountain, linking his friends and his memories, everything he refused to lose even if his mind-cloud failed him. In his heart-mountain, he could roam freely, and, if necessary, lose himself within himself.

* * *

Ingvar's soul was the sky.

Endless, vast, expansive, always expanding to make room for one more person, one more wandering soul seeking guidance or shelter. A sky both colder than snow and hotter than the Arridian deserts, a sky to bring light and life one moment, and storms and death the next. The peaceful guardian and the raging warrior, effortlessly balanced, one side appearing when the other was threatened, both life and death working in perfect tandem with one ultimate goal - _protect._

He carries no precious memories here. His soul-sky is his driving force, and the only thing he keeps here is a list and a word. The list is of people he watches over, and the word is his simplest, most straightforward motivation for all things -

_Protect._


	5. Stig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly dead, but I swear someday I'll finish it...eventually.

Stig's mind was a ship.

A ship that sailed through the endless skies, with memories crammed into the boards and stitched into the sail. On this ship, he was captain, and the ghosts that glided silently across the deck were all he needed. But they only remained as long as their living counterpart drew breath - and if their living counterpart died or was otherwise lost, the ghost withered and faded to the faintest memory. Hal's ghost was the brightest of them all. This ship was his haven, his retreat, his safety from the world.

She sailed on a sea of dreams, fast but not terribly agile as she raced against the great dark beast beneath the waves. The beast was always there, in the corner of his eye, impossible to confront directly, something that could only be dealt with by avoiding it. But it was hunting him, and he was running out of room to run.

* * *

Stig's heart was a star.

A star that shone as brightly as the stars in the sky, bright and silver and blazing. A guiding light for those lost or confused, a fixed point in a world wracked with chaos. Stig was a man often ruled by his heart, and his heart was remarkably steady. It was not a backup system, but the compass by which he lived. The star lit the way through vast and treacherous landscapes to those things which Stig valued highly and guarded jealously - his friends, his mother, and his pride. To win his heart was to be trusted with all these things, and he did not trust easily.

But his star shone on through it all, ranging from a beacon so bright it threatened to overwhelm the sky to a faint, near-invisible pinprick.

* * *

Stig's soul was the sun.

The sun, which blazed hot and fierce, even when thunderous storm clouds and pouring rains threatened to wash away the world below. Even the mightiest storms could not put it out - but they could block it, obscure its shining light and leave him blind and lost. Alternatively, the storms could never come and leave the scorching heat to burn away the seas and grass and reduce him to naught but smoke and ash.

The sun brought life, but it could also kill, and every day it moved inexorably towards its own destruction.


End file.
